


Little Brown Beats

by Saesama



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Hypnotism, Jane learns the truth, brown noises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TT: Don’t mention me or Roxy.<br/>TT: You know exactly how he feels about your family, and I don’t want to contemplate the backlash of him finding out you’re in the BFF-sies with his kid and Lalonde the younger.<br/>TT: Do that for me?<br/>GG: Of course, Dirk :B</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Brown Beats

TT: For fuck’s sake.  
TT: Crocker, if you’re really determined to go slogging through this pile of horse shit, do me a favor.  
TT: Don’t mention me or Roxy.  
TT: You know exactly how he feels about your family, and I don’t want to contemplate the backlash of him finding out you’re in the BFF-sies with his kid and Lalonde the younger.  
TT: Do that for me?  
GG: Of course, Dirk :B

o o o

You take two slow, calming breaths before you get out of the car. Charlie follows at a respectful distance, scoping out the scene, tense and quiet. You look up at the building - a hideous mishmash of orange and blue and red, topped with Sweet Bro's leering smile.

"Ms. Crocker," Charlie says, worried. "Do you really want to go through with this?"

"I might be able to do some good here, Charlie," you say, patting down your skirt. "Maybe even divert some of this train wreck."

Charlie looks up at Sweet Bro, frowning. "With this guy?"

You smile a little. "As I understand it, he's not _always_ five years old," you quip. Charlie laughs, a little strained, and follows you inside.

The building is unfinished and just as painful on the eyes as the outside. The tables are all ancient Formica scavenged from diners across the country and the seats are everything from battered sofas to tall wing-backed chairs to wooden sawhorses with boards nailed to the top. Between the furniture and the layers of SBaHJ merchandise on the walls, liberally interspersed with what can only be described as ‘weird kitschy stuff’, the overall effect is a little like an ancient thrift store decided to break into the food industry.

You know, after talks with Dirk, that nearly each bauble on the walls and each scratched up barstool is carefully placed to tell a thousand intertwined stories. There’s enough purely random crap to throw even the most careful reader off, and there will be people trying to unravel the threads for years. 

There’s a broad man in a hard hat standing at the top of the stairs that lead up to the balcony seating, and he waves at you, gesturing you up. You glance at Charlie and start to climb.

Mr. Strider is waiting for you. He’s tall and lean and slouched artistically against a bright green table with his arms crossed. You can’t see his eyes through the oversized aviators perched on the end of his nose, but you can feel them boring holes through you.

No time to be nervous. “Mr. Strider,” you say politely, offering him your hand.

He unfolds slowly, and you think of some kind of bird of prey, but he takes your hand and shakes it firmly. “I wondered if you’d show up alone,” he says, and a tiny jerk of his head indicates Charlie.

“I am neither alone nor unarmed, Mr. Strider,” you say primly as he lets go of your hand. “I’ve had far too many attempts on my life already.”

A slow, lazy smirk curves his lips. “Smart girl,” he says, then he moves to pull out your seat for you – a relatively normal dining chair – and you realize that there’s someone else at the table.

She could be Mr. Strider’s sister. She’s almost as tall, and just as lean, with a willowy frame and the same white-blond hair. You know she’s not related to him, and you didn’t even know that they were acquainted, but you know who she is. “Ms. Lalonde,” you say, a little slow, a little unsure. “I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

She smiles at you and if Mr. Strider is a bird of prey, she’s a stalking cat in the shadows of the tall chair she’s leaning back in. Her fingers are laced under her chin, and you don’t offer her a handshake only because you doubt she’d take it. “This is a very important meeting, Jane Crocker,” she says. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, if only to keep this chucklefuck from ruining everything.”

You stare at her for half a second before you realize that she’s talking about Mr. Strider. His lips purse as he sits down on a wobbly bar stool, and you also realize that he’s pouting at her. They’re well acquainted, then, familiar enough to poke fun at each other, and you’re not sure if you should be less or more nervous.

“I would offer you a menu,” Mr. Strider says. “But the stove is still in pieces and the refrigerator got shipped to fucking Mexico City instead of here, so, there’s no food in the house. Anyway, I don’t think you’re here to eat.”

“Correct,” you say. You take a slow breath, and wish you’d rehearsed this a few thousand more times. “Mr. Strider, I’m here because I feel I have a right to protest the… depiction of myself shown in your latest movie. I know, quite well, that your movies contain an underlying thread of protest against Crocker Corp, and that the ‘Princess Batterpanties’ cartoon was a dig at me instead of the corp. Your attacks, when they can be understood, are starting to get more personal. I want to try and head this off now. I wanted to meet you, personally, and see if we can’t come to some kind of understanding like rational adults.”

They stare at you for a long moment, and then Ms. Lalonde laughs lightly into her hand. “Oh, we underestimated her,” she giggles. “I do believe she has far more poise than you ever will.”

“Fuck you; I have poise coming out of my ears.” Mr. Strider leans forward, staring at you and you can almost see the shape of his eyes behind the dark glass. “You really have no idea, do you?” he asks softly. “What your company is doing, what dear old Betty Crocker is up to? You’re as blinded as everyone else.”

You sit back, affronted. “We’re a tech and baking company,” you say firmly. “We make computers and cake mixes.”

“Yeah, and what’s in those mixes?” he counters. “What’s coming across those computers? Not many people really know for sure, because the ones who find out and aren’t damn careful disappear.”

You swallow. “You’re just trying to scare me,” you accuse. “It won’t work.”

“Bullshit,” he says, and you’re not sure which part he’s protesting. He tips his head, as if eying you in consideration. “You got one of those thoughtwave computers on you?”

You blink at the change in topic. “My Tiaratop,” you say. “Why?”

“Put it on,” he says, waving his hand at you. “I want to show you something.”

You give him a mistrustful look, then rifle through your sylladex to find the slim red band and place it on your head. Pesterlog immediately blinks in the corner of your vision, your friends asking you how the meeting went. 

“Do something,” Mr. Strider directs you. “Surf a website, talk to a friend, anything you’re familiar with.”

You debate bringing up Roxy’s chat window and telling her that her mom is here, but you decide it can wait. Instead you dive into the Crocker recipe bank, sifting through the familiar lists and steps. “Okay,” you say.

Mr. Strider leans forward and places his hands over the tabletop like it’s a piano he’s about to play. “You know what a brown noise is?” he asks, tapping one finger in a steady rhythm.

You’re unable to help making a face. “It’s a noise that makes a person crap their pants,” you tell him.

“Right.” Another finger joins the first, a double rhythm a little like a heartbeat. “They’ve been looking for the universal brown noise for years. The military wants to weaponize it, seriously.” His fingers speed up a little, more joining in into a quick, overlapping beat like a techno song. “But there’s not a single brown noise. There’s a bunch of brown beats, though, little ditties than synch up with your body and let it do things it normally couldn’t. And they’ll never be able to mass produce it, because each one is a little bit different for everyone, somewhere within a teeny tiny scale of frequencies and if you don’t get it just right, you’re wasting your time.”

Ms. Lalonde is watching you with no expression. Mr. Strider’s knuckles ripple as his fingers move, tapping out something strange and off-center, not 3/4 time or 4/4 time but more like 5/17 time or pi/53 time, something weird. “So, what does that have to do with my Tiaratop?” you ask.

“One of the beats allows you to perceive subliminal messages with your conscious mind,” he says casually.

You stare at him. “You think I’m seeing subliminal messages right now?” you ask, unable to help the faintly derisive tone.

“I know you are,” he says, simple like it’s the truth. “Let’s see if I can prove it to you. Keep surfing.”

You frown but do as he says, reading over recipes. His beat speeds up and slows down imperceptibly, and you can feel the vibrations where your hands rest on the table, can feel them travel up your arms and neck and vibrate at the base of your skull. Something starts to flicker between the lines of instructions – must be the connection breaking up, and you swap over to a recipe saved on the device.

Pumpkin roll. Delicious and an old favorite. 

( )

Eggs, pumpkin, spices-

_(……)_

The flickering is still there. Maybe the neural connector is dying?

-flour, sugar, cream cheese-

_(…s…..st)_

-heat the oven to three-fifty, waxed paper in the pans-

The beat is changing by slow degrees, thudding through your skull, making you clench your teeth.

-beat the eggs and sugar first-

_(…stop…stop…stop…)_

Mr. Strider is staring at you like a hawk watches a mouse, like a raven watches a bright coin.

-mix in the pumpkin-

_**(…stop…submit…no…)** _

-add the flour-

_**(STOP REPRODUCING. OBEY THE EMPRESS. SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT OBEY OBEY OB-)** _

With a cry, you rip the Tiaratop off of your head and throw it to the tabletop. Mr. Strider stops his twisted rhythm and they watch you, they only watch you and don’t say anything. 

You’re crying a little, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. Charlie has moved closer, his hand on your shoulder, and he’s glaring at Mr. Strider in open hostility.

“You heard it,” Mr. Strider says softly.

Reality slams back into place. “You hypnotized me,” you accuse him.

“A little,” he admits with a shrug. “But you heard it, right?”

“I heard a trick,” you spit, because now you’re scared, and it’s easier to blame him than contemplate the consequences of him being right. “I heard you planting, planting ideas in my head, trying to turn me against my family.” You stand up and snatch up the Tiaratop and ignore the way your skin crawls before you captchalog it. 

They’re both looking at you with expressions very close to sympathy. “You know that’s not true,” Mr. Strider says.

You feel a sudden rush of helpless, scared anger, and he must be lying, he has to be because your world can’t be shattered like this. “Dirk was right,” you snap without thinking. “I never should have come her, I never should have-“

“ _You know him?_ ”

You look up, startled by his outburst. Mr. Strider’s on his feet, staring at you with open shock, by far the most expression you’ve seen on his face. It's not angry but you feel ashamed anyway, of breaking your promise to Dirk and Roxy. "And if I do?" you counter, scared and defensive and angry with everyone in the room except Charlie. "I don't think it's any business of yours. Good day, Mr. Stri-"

"Wait. Crocker, please, wait."

You don't think you've heard of a single instance of him being polite to anyone, and it makes you pause. He's looking at you, his expression openly pleading and he looks about as helpless as you feel. His hand comes up almost like he's reaching out to you, then drops to his side. "You know him," he repeats, and it's not a question. "You've, god, you've talked to him, and-"

"Dave," Ms. Lalonde says quietly, and it's kind of a warning.

He turns on her. "Rose, she can help me," he says, all in a rush. "She can help _us_. She can-"

" _Dave_ ," she repeats, and now it _is_ a warning. "You know that's not the way this is going to go."

You look between then cautiously. "What are you talking about?" you ask. "What's wrong with Dirk and-" 

You bite off the sentence before it finishes, but Ms. Lalonde's eyes blaze and she's suddenly staring you down. "And Roxy," she finishes for you, slow and wondering. "You know Roxy."

They're both looking at you like you're the answers to all of their prayers. You don't say anything. "Will you do me a favor?" Mr. Strider asks finally. "Just one? I'll-" He grimaces and plunges on. "No more personal attacks. I'll stick to harping on the corporation only from now on. You, your dad and your goofy fucking grandpa are off-limits."

"Crocker Corp is off limits," you say.

He shakes his head slowly. "I won't do that. I can't. _Please_."

You look at him for a long moment. Something in him has cracked; he's no longer cold-as-artic Mr. Strider, multi-millionaire Hollywood hotshot. He's distressed and strained and willing to actually censor himself for something only you, for some reason, can give him.

You think of the way Roxy and Dirk talk about their guardians, about the way they seem so disconnected from the people that raised them. You wonder.

"What favor?"

He sighs explosively, rakes his hand through his hair. "Will you-" He cuts off, visibly struggling for the right words. "Is he okay? Dirk. Is he doing okay?"

You look at him oddly. Shouldn't he know the answer to that? What kind of guardian is he? "He's fine, as of this morning," you say cautiously, then you glance at Ms. Lalonde. "Roxy, too."

Mr. Strider visibly relaxes. "Okay. Okay, good, that's- good. Will you tell-"

"Tell them we're sorry," Ms. Lalonde says, leaning forward in her seat. Mr. Strider shoots her a look half exasperated, half grateful. "Tell them that we wish things could be better."

You stare at her for a moment. "Why don't you tell them?" you ask.

They both stare right back, and you wonder what you missed. Finally, Mr. Strider snorts. "We would if we could," he says, right back to Hollywood smooth but you can hear the underlying bitterness in his tone. "Extenuating circumstances. Will you pass that on? Please?"

You look between them both, then nod, slowly. They both relax by minute degrees but don't say anything, and you turn to walk away.

"Crocker."

You pause with your foot on the first stair and look back. Mr. Strider is looking at you, his hands in his pockets. "For what it's worth," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."

You don't know what, exactly, he's apologizing for. Everything? Anything? Is he even really sure? 

You dip your head in a slight nod. "For what it's worth," you respond. "So am I."


End file.
